


Stay

by Leviosally468



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ...but not really, ...sort of, Deciphering Geralt's love language is hard ok, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Falling In Love, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied Sexual Content, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25807609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviosally468/pseuds/Leviosally468
Summary: Stay….he says. It’s what healwayssays, as though Jaskier was a small child or a particularly wayward puppy. He was neither of these things,obviously, but as he opens his mouth to protest for the umpteenth time, knowing full-well the argument is absolutely fruitless and completely self-indulgent he finds himself dispelled abruptly with the witcher’s second favorite silencing mechanism; piercing goldendeathglare. But, Jaskier was a man of principle, and arguing with Geralt was just that…a matter of principle.I.E. That day, Jaskier was amazed to discover that when Geralt was saying "Stay," what he meant was, "I love you."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 459





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> This fic spawned entirely from the HC that Geralt is always telling Jaskier to "stay" (safe..and all those feel-y reasons that big, bad witchers don’t say out loud) and I used it while writing 'Take The Heat' and then it just wouldn't leave me alone, XD, so here's a 2K ficlet. Y'all on Tumblr and Discord inspired me to flesh it out and post it here, so thank you <3 <3 <3

_Stay_ ….he says. It’s what he _always_ says, as though Jaskier was a small child or a particularly wayward puppy. He was neither of these things, _obviously_ , but as he opens his mouth to protest for the umpteenth time, knowing full-well the argument is absolutely fruitless and completely self-indulgent he finds himself dispelled abruptly with the witcher’s second favorite silencing mechanism; piercing golden _death_ glare. But, Jaskier was a man of principle, and arguing with Geralt was just that…a matter of principle.  


_"Stay"_ , Geralt whisper hisses over his shoulder, handing him Roach’s reins before sneaking ahead into an abandoned cave or shack or fog shrouded thicket or other such likely place, securing the area like some sort of overgrown, witchery body-guard. And while Geralt playing the big, bad protector did indeed have a rather charming ‘knight-in-shining-armor’ ring to it, Jaskier wasn’t _completely_ useless.  


_"Stay"_ , he growls as he bandages Jaskier’s wounds, obtained more oft than not by merely tripping over his own feet, but that was _hardly_ the point.  


_"Stay"_ , he says through gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of Jaskier’s doublet and hauling him quickly behind the edge of a building before stepping out to put himself between Jaskier and this week’s angry lord, which sends a blush blooming in his cheeks for entirely different reasons. _But_ , he had succeeded in out-foxing many a past dalliance long before Geralt came along and was well practiced at looking out for himself, thankyouverymuch.  


_"Stay"_ , Geralt orders before he takes off on a hunt, leaving Jaskier behind in camp or at an Inn. And no matter how he huffs and puffs and complains that if Geralt describes one more monster as _‘He was one-hundred feet tall with rolling orange eyes and rows and rows of bard-crushing teeth’_ , his lute would surely crack, the witcher merely quirks a smile at him, golden eyes effectively rooting him to the spot once more as he swings up into the saddle and takes off into the growing twilight…and Jaskier absolutely _does not_ swoon at that.  


_“Stay.”_ Geralt repeats even now, like a bloody mantra, and Jaskier barely looks up from where he’s scratching various rhymes and lyrics into his notebook with his tongue caught between his teeth.  


***  


Jaskier knows Geralt’s been gone too long as he strides up to the front of the tavern he’s playing in for his second set of the evening and the dim, corner table near the back remains steadfastly empty.  


He knows Geralt’s been gone _far_ too long as he gathers his coin and tucks away his lute, turning toward the stair leading up to their room with a worrying twist in his gut.  


He knows something must be _absolutely_ wrong as the hour turns later and later, pushing well into the realm of the wee morning with still no Geralt. So, he makes like any good friend, and builds himself up with reassurances that Geralt’s condition that he _‘stay’_ surely came with provisos like _‘In the event of a Griffin evisceration, send help…particularly a devastatingly handsome bard with eyes the color of the bluest sky, and lips as sweet as cherry pie…strong enough to bench an ox and hands I wish would wrap my c—’_ Okay, okay perhaps the last part was a _bit_ wishful, but a bard could dream. More importantly, Geralt could be in trouble, and that certainly wouldn’t do…for a variety of reasons. With one dagger tucked safely in his boot, and another hidden away inside his doublet, he grabs his cloak and sets off into the night.  


The mayor who had contracted Geralt in the first place was understandably disgruntled, brushing his valet aside as Jaskier’s incessant hammering of the door, practically fit to break it in, finally yields results. Jaskier draws himself up importantly, waving aside the poor man’s outrage at the late-night interruption and proceeds to interrogate him about the location of the latest big bad Wyvern Geralt has been commissioned to dispatch. After talking the poor mayor hoarse, and apologizing at long last for the late hour, he bows his way off the front stoop and heads off in the direction of the mayor’s half-lucid gesturing, hoping against hope that he’s made the right choice.  


There’s surely no better recipe for worry than walking alone down a dark forest path in the middle of the night by one’s self, fretting in equal measure about A. what sort of help he would actually be if he found the witcher; he had seen Geralt in action before, and knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. He flushed richly just thinking about how Geralt’s muscles rippled and flexed in the midst of a battle, effectively obliterating any wonder of why there was even a fight in the first place upon more than one occasion, and B. Hoping against hope that Geralt wasn’t actually _seriously_ hurt, and that the hunt was just taking longer than normal because Wyverns were, by all accounts, very flighty and unpredictable beasts… _with rolling orange eyes and rows and rows of bard-crushing--_ …bloody hell.  


It takes Jaskier a surprisingly shorter amount of time to find Geralt than he thought it would, which was both a blessing and a curse as the witcher lay propped against a boulder breathing raggedly with a hand pressed over what appeared, even at a distance, to be a rather sizeable gash across his lower abdomen.  


“Geralt!” Jaskier gasps aloud, closing the remaining distance between them at a desperate stumble.  


“Jaskier…” Geralt breathes, drawing a slow, pained breath, “I told you to…”  


“…I know, I _know…stay_ ” Jaskier shoots back, skidding onto his knees at Geralt’s side and examining the wound. It’s deep, judging by the blood that’s seeping slowly over Geralt’s fingers, and Jaskier swallows thickly, forcing himself to keep a cool head as he turns instead to rummage in his pack. He withdraws a bottle of alcohol (definitely not the drinking kind) and yanks the cork out with his teeth.  


“It’ll heal…” Geralt croaks out, his hand catching Jaskier’s wrist “…I don’t…” but Jaskier merely bats his hands and decidedly unconvincing protests aside.  


“Geralt, do stop being a complete ox and hold still. You’re not going anywhere by yourself with your liver half out, and I’m not going to sit here and wait for the next angry beastie to make a snack of us both, so It’s _your_ turn to _stay_.” With a resigned scowl, Geralt’s fingers release his wrist and he settles back against the rock.  


Jaskier musters a small, encouraging smile as Geralt’s eyes stare resolutely back from under his heavy lids, before emptying the bottle over the wound, eliciting a sharp hiss from the witcher that makes Jaskier’s chest clench. He squeezes his eyes shut in a tight grimace as Geralt swears aloud, but he pushes it desperately aside, holding a small needle and thread up to his eyes.  


“Now, I need you to stay _still_ unless you want me to suture your elbow to your crotch.”  


Jaskier could swear the corners of Geralt’s mouth twitched weakly at that, but it’s gone quicker than it had come as his hands fist at his sides, bracing himself.  


Geralt’s jaw clenches and unclenches in his periphery as he sets the point of the needle to the witcher’s flesh. He can feel that piercing amber gaze boring into him as he closes the wound, nimble fingers making quick work of the suturing and trying not concentrate on the way Geralt’s chest shudders, his skin twitching involuntarily with each stitch.  


With his work done, he finally forces himself to meet Geralt’s eyes; his golden pools are swirling with anguish (that he’s _still_ trying to hide), a stormy reticence (came with the territory of actually _accepting_ help; moments that were few and far between as a general rule), and an undercurrent of something else…almost _affectionate_. Realizing he’s been staring at Geralt past the point of being considered even mildly too long, he gives himself a shake and moves to sling an arm under the witcher. Geralt runs hot, and his body radiates warmth into Jaskier’s side, making his skin prickle as he hoists him to his feet. 

Geralt stumbles a little, grunts a lot, but says nothing as they stagger awkwardly over to Roach. He tries to shrug Jaskier off and mount up himself, but while it’s a valiant effort, it almost ends in catastrophe in the form of Geralt ripping out his stitches as he falls back. Jaskier rolls his eyes, stepping forward and nudging his shoulder up under Geralt’s thigh while his other hand cups a handful of Geralt’s ass as he boosts him up behind the saddle. If there was ever a poorer time to be turned on by the whole affair, this was surely it and Jaskier dutifully looks anywhere but Geralt’s face as a crimson blush blooms on his cheeks.  


_“Stay.”_ Jaskier whispers, giving his leg an affectionate squeeze before climbing up in front of him on Roach and clicking the mare to a brisk walk so as not to disturb Geralt’s wounds.  


***  


_“Stay.”_ Jaskier says reassuringly, lowering Geralt onto the bed and squeezing his hand just briefly before crossing the room to retrieve bandages. The witcher still doesn’t say anything, and at least he’s given up protesting, but Jaskier can feel his eyes tracking his movements.  


_“Stay.”_ he says, trying on his best imitation of Geralt’s glare before disappearing downstairs to retrieve food and Geralt’s favorite drink just so he can see the rare but nonetheless genuine smile Geralt reserved for the things he holds dearest in life (Ale, Roach and…well perhaps Jaskier ranked in there somewhere even if Geralt wasn’t exactly _forthcoming_ …)  


“…and now you’re going to stay here and rest…and let _me_ take care of _you_ …” He croons reassuringly, sitting upon the edge of the bed and reaching up hesitantly to brush a stray strand of silver off of Geralt’s face as the witcher levels him an un-readable look.  


No sooner were the words out of his mouth, than Jaskier’s suddenly leaping from the bed as though burned, a wide-eyed look of comprehension dawning on his face as he darts across the room to his bag, wherein he knew resided an old dictionary. Ignoring Geralt’s grunts of surprise that chase over his retreating shoulder, his fingers flip madly through the pages until he finds the one he’s looking for:  


**_Stay_** ; /sta/ To remain in a specified state or position. To delay harm or risk or hurt. To prevent the threat of danger, harm, or loss. Often to impose protection or safe-guarding of something valuable.  


With an effort, Jaskier un-sticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and swallows the lump in his throat, a somewhat guilty sensation writhing in his chest….  


…Geralt had been taking care of him all this time.  


_‘Safe-guarding something valuable’_ loops on repeat in his head as he closes the old book and slides it back into his bag before rising slowly and turning back toward the bed. He finds Geralt’s inquisitive golden gaze, the hard lines of his brow drawn in a question, and Jaskier finds himself fumbling for the right words.  


“Y’know, just…thought of a word for a song…” He murmurs, waving a hand dismissively when Geralt simply continues to stare at him with a look that is equal parts concern as though he had suddenly taken ill and something else that he could only describe as indifference…which Geralt could hardly be condemned for, as impulsively diving for his notebook was something Jaskier was indeed prone to doing, and _often_.  


“You can uh…you should take the bed and I’ll kip on the floor here….” He produces awkwardly but Geralt’s penetrating gaze doesn’t falter.  


Suddenly there’s a hand on his forearm as Geralt’s fingers close tentatively around it;  


_“Stay...”_ Geralt says in a low whisper, and now his fingers are firming up around Jaskier’s forearm, pulling him slowly downward.  


_“…stay…”_ Geralt says again, so softly Jaskier could almost have imagined it. His lips are a hair’s breadth away now and the space around them is suddenly thick and heady, and Jaskier’s eyes slide closed as Geralt’s mouth finds his.  


***  
_“Stay.”_ Geralt whispers into Jaskier’s shoulder, planting a trail of kisses across the back of his neck and into his hair. Geralt’s strong hand grips his hip, tugging him back until Jaskier feels the stiff heat of his cock grind against the swell of his ass and he tips his head back with little whine of pleasure, quite happy to _stay_ anywhere Geralt wants if they can stay…well, just like this.  


*  


_“Stay.”_ Geralt still says weeks later, leaning down to peck Jaskier’s cheek before swinging into Roach’s saddle and galloping away in the direction of a Manticore contract. Jaskier smiles to himself, as his quill scratches over a fresh sheet of parchment, knowing now that when Geralt said _‘stay’_ , what he really meant was…  


_‘This I pray, for you to stay  
I need you safe, so that I may be brave, I need you safe for me  
I care for you, and you for me, in this crazy world we’re meant to be  
So do your thing, let your dreams take wing, but please stay safe for me’  
_

*  


_“Stay?”_ It’s a question this time as he takes Jaskier’s hand in his, looking fervently into his eyes. There’s a chill in the air, carrying with it the promise of winter which usually means a parting of the ways, but the invitation is clear, and Jaskier quirks a smile at him.  


“Thought you’d had enough of my singing by now, witcher…” He says casually, planting his other hand on his hip.  


“Who says you’ll be singing?” Geralt murmurs before stepping forward and covering Jaskier’s lips in a rather hungry kiss, presumably in an effort to demonstrate exactly what he had in mind for Jaskier’s mouth.  


*  


_“Stay.”_ Geralt murmurs now, before sliding in behind him in the bath.  


*  


_“Stay.”_ he growls every time before bearing down on any given group of piss-drunk patrons who dared insult Jaskier’s performance.  


*  


_“St- Sta-Jaskier!”_ He hisses when Jaskier returns the favor, flourishing his dagger in the face of any cad he caught sneering about witchers.  


*  


_“Stay.”_ He murmurs into the pillow as Jaskier’s palms knead his shoulders.  


_Stay…_  


_Stay…_  


_Stay_ …  


***  


Jaskier breathes deeply, the sweet salty scent of the ocean filling his nostrils. The crisp, cool air is a stark contrast to the warmth of Geralt’s broad chest molded against Jaskier’s backside, strong arms wrapped around him from behind. They’re quiet, merely content to revel in the feel of one another. Jaskier’s eyes drift lazily open and closed and he loses track of time as Geralt’s heartbeat thuds against him and his warm breath puffs against his scalp where the witcher’s nose is nuzzled into his hair. The sound of waves crashing on the rocks fills his ears and he wriggles contentedly in Geralt’s embrace.  


“Is this what pleases you?” The low hum of Geralt’s voice whispers against his ear, sending a prickle racing over his flesh as they look out over the sea, the final rays of the setting sun staining the western horizon in a rich wash of orange and red and purplish-blue.  


“I suppose I could get used to this, yes.” He murmurs in a mocking-casual tone, squeezing Geralt’s forearms where they remain steadfastly firm around his chest, smile widening as Geralt snorts a response. He looks down inquisitively as Geralt withdraws one of his arms to rummage something out of his pocket, and suddenly he’s staring, dumbstruck as Geralt pushes a small silver circlet onto the third finger of his left hand before hugging him close once more and burying his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.  


_“Stay?”_  


_“Stay.”_


End file.
